April Fool

by William Deverell

  Their judge has run off to the dry hills of the Okanagan, a pro-am charity event–he’s teamed with a guest celebrity, a Masters winner. There’s media coverage. Santorini has let it be known that nothing short of a terrorist attack–certainly not an environmental crisis on Garibaldi Island–will dislodge him from those fairways and greens.

  “Fine, we’ll adjourn the matter until he gets back.” None of the other judges will stand in. This case has already bounced to the Appeal Court and back, and is likely regarded as in the same category as dogs’ breakfasts and cans of worms. Unless forced to by rare circumstance–such as Santorini drowning in a water hazard–no judge of sound mind will want to pinch-hit. But why is Selwyn looking more dismal than usual today?

  “The Chief Justice himself insists on stepping in, Arthur.”

  Arthur feels his jaw drop. Wilbur Kroop? Surely Selwyn is joking. Arthur looks up and locates Garlinc’s legal team at level four, in amiable conversation. It’s no joke, they’re enjoying their good fortune.

  “I hear he can be difficult,” Selwyn says.

  “He’s an irascible fathead.”

  The wars are legendary. Twenty years ago, Arthur spent three nights in jail before surrendering to him, apologizing in court. Three nights withdrawing from alcohol were more than he could take.

  “He won’t be pleased to see me,” Arthur says. “I’d best stay hidden.”

  Despondent, he watches Court 41 fill with lawyers, public, and press. The door closes on them. He paces. There had been hope with Santorini, at bottom a fair-minded man. Wilbur Kroop sees protestors as outlaws bent on challenging the sacred institutions of capital and state. Society’s imminent collapse into anarchy is a theme that garnishes many of his judgments.

  Half an hour passes. When the door opens for traffic in and out, he hears Prudhomme arguing the Wildlife Act, Selwyn talking about Phantom Orchids. He hears Kroop ask a question, so at least he’s listening. Maybe he’s changed, mellowed with age, like fine whisky. The analogy isn’t apt: Kroop is the worst kind of non-drinker, someone who never did, a teeto-taller all his life.

  Finally, after another twenty minutes, Arthur surrenders to curiosity, slipping in as the door opens to release a few bored spectators. He perches painfully in the last row. Wilbur Kroop looks well at seventy-three, a great bald walnut-shaped head, eyes that seem to emit black light as they roam about the room, finally pausing at Arthur, squinting, moving on. Selwyn is still on his feet, the going rough.

  “No, no, Mr. Loo.” A squeaky unnatural voice from a heavy person, accented by the clacking sound of poorly fitted false teeth. “Surely it’s not your position that the courts should stand idly by while a gang of squatters–who seem to have no jobs to work at or classes to attend–occupy someone’s titled property, and–if I rightly read the affidavits of the plaintiff corporation–roast hot dogs and smoke cannabis and engage in naked displays for the titillation of television news audiences.”

  Arthur dismisses the fancy of the mellowed judge.

  “Are you asking me a question, Chief Justice?”

  Kroop glowers at impudent Selwyn. “What I seek to know, Mr. Loo, is how you might feel if a legion of trespassers set up camp in your backyard.”

  “I live in an apartment.”

  “Come, come, I think you have my point. The plaintiff bought this property for $8 million in anticipation of fair profit through development and harvesting of timber, and their plans have been held up for over three weeks by this sit-in business–yet they are willing to compromise. They will go in by barge. They will not touch the so-called Holy Tree. They will cordon off and protect that little meadow with the rare orchid species. And the chocolate lilies…”

  He squeaks to a stop, ponders, detours: “What I can’t understand is why the police are doing nothing. This fellow in charge, Corporal Ivanchuk, seems a bit of a layabout, people are going up and down that tree like yoyos. And here’s another concern: Where’s the Attorney General in all this? Removing these protestors should be the state’s work. The company must not be burdened with these costs. Mr. Prudhomme, please give my regards to the Attorney General, and tell him he would oblige me by enforcing, with appropriate manpower, the rule of law on Garibaldi Island.”

  Selwyn subsides into his chair, mouthing a sibilance that younger ears than Kroop’s might hear as “shit.” The Chief Justice glares at him, does another sweep of the room with his cold black eyes, again settling for a moment on Arthur. He works a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles over his nose, and scrutinizes him out once more, as if to be sure, then returns to Prudhomme.

  “You have your restraining order. All these people, including the four who are up that tree, will leave immediately. Those who refuse are to be arrested and brought before me on charges of criminal contempt. This entire farce has to be brought to an end. We cannot have anarchy in the forests.”

  Arthur bolts from the room.

  19

  Twilight nears as Syd-Air drops Arthur at the wharf of the General Store in Hopeless Bay. He left Lotis on the mainland with the Toyota, so he must somehow cadge a ride to the Gap. Margaret now has no choice but to come down voluntarily or face jail. Let the three Greenpeacers defy Kroop if they wish, let them take the brunt of his wrath, but she should not, she has served honourably.

  The store’s only customer is Winnie Gillicuddy, hectoring Abraham Makepeace with questions and complaint. “How old are these carrots, they feel like rubber.” “Where in heaven’s name is the Cream of Wheat?” Arthur reaches up to retrieve it for her. “Thank you, young man.” She doesn’t recognize Arthur in his suit, with briefcase.

  “Can’t lend you my car, it’s broke,” Makepeace says. “I’ll call this new taxi service for you.” A flyer on the bulletin board: Tour the island in one of our vintage vehicles, $7.50 to anywhere. He dials a cellphone number. “They’re on the way.”

  While Arthur paces and frets, Winnie cashes her pension cheque and Makepeace totes up her month’s bill. “Put the rest on Scratch and Win,” she says, “and don’t forget my pint.”

  Makepeace tells Arthur, “She always has a few drops on pension day.”

  “Don’t you talk about me as if I’m not here.”

  “You better not get pie-eyed again, Winnie.”

  “Thank you for minding my business.”

  A few minutes later, Bob Stonewell is at the door, dark aviator glasses, a half-smoked rollie stowed over his ear, a cellphone hooked to his belt. “Who wants a taxi here?”

  “I’m your fare, Stoney, and I’m in a hurry.”

  A blank look is quickly replaced by an overabundant smile, hinting Stoney was hoping not to bump into him. “Arthur Beauchamp, the town tonsil, just the man I wanted to see. Here, let me get that briefcase.”

  Stoney wrestles it from him. Arthur steps out and sees his Fargo, a worn chesterfield in the back. Stoney slips the joint from behind his ear and lights it, seeking the courage to contend, once again, with the rightful owner and occasional user of this vehicle.

  Arthur considers climbing onto the chesterfield, stretching out, resting his throbbing rear. But he gets in front, and Stoney pulls away, stubbing the joint, releasing a cloud of smoke from his lungs, and a gust of words. “Yeah, we finally got the old girl flushed out and back on her feet after that accidental drowning. This trip’s on me, Arthur, no obligation, never mind what it says on the sign.”

  The sign, which obstructs the view through the windshield, advertises the $7.50-fare-to-anywhere and the cellphone number.

  “I’m wondering as a favour in return if there’s any chance I can incorporate the Fargo into the fleet for a couple of days. Hey, man, you’ll be helping me in an economic crisis. I got two other machines that just suddenly broke down, so I’m kind of living on borrowed time until maybe Monday, Tuesday at the latest, when I’m getting delivery of a mint ’58 canary-yellow shark-finned Chrysler, I’m trading with Honk Gilmore for it, giving him back the backhoe, a machine that caused me more misery than made
money. I’m going to finish the pond first though, I got a reputation.”

  “I don’t care about the damn pond! The Fargo’s not important! Margaret’s important!” Stoney looks shaken at this outburst. “Tell me what’s happening at the Gap.”

  “I heard a bunch of cops rolled in.”

  “Have there been arrests?”

  “Hey, man, relax, that fort is impregnable. Only one way to get up there, and that’s by a rope ladder they ain’t gonna let down.”

  Arthur twigs to an unforeseen problem. If Margaret comes down that ladder, the police could take control of it, storm the redoubt, seize the tools and cable. She would never allow that to happen. He’s dismayed.

  Early-evening shadows creep upon Stump Town as Arthur alights. Several reporters are sitting by their vans, grumbling, though Arthur isn’t sure why. He joins the two Als at the Save Gwendolyn information booth. Corporal Al looks depressed. Reverend Al remains plucky. The few dozen young folks remaining are dismantling their tents.

  Corporal Al says, “The inspector’s hauling me in, Arthur, because of that judicial rebuke. He’s sent a crew to enforce the injunction, and I’m out of the picture.”

  “They’re reading the injunction to our tree-sitters as we speak,” Reverend Al says.

  “Well, why aren’t we there?”

  “We’ve got orders to quarantine the area,” Corporal Al says. “No press even.”

  Arthur sees this as a strategic error on the part of the authorities. The media may be fickle friends, but are far more influential than most judges want to admit. By and large, the Save Gwendolyn Society has been winning the war of images.

  He strides off to the trail head, where he comes upon a uniformed woman standing sentry.

  “Sorry, sir, we’re not allowing the public…”

  “I’m not the public.” He steps by her, marches ahead, pausing only when he sees Flim and Flam–they’ve snuck through the forest, are behind a fallen tree, aiming cameras at five uniformed men. They, in turn, are looking up at the heavy-bolted fortress. At the railing, Margaret is dwarfed by three young men with the sinewy physiques of basketball players. She looks frail beside them, defiant nonetheless–Arthur knows that arms-folded look, understands there’ll be no early homecoming.

  The commanding officer is a sergeant of stern military bearing. He waves his handcuffs, shouts up to them: “I have orders to take you in unless you leave immediately.”

  “We forgot our parachutes,” a blond ponytailed leviathan says.

  It is then that Arthur sees the rope ladder in a twisted heap at the officers’ feet. The sergeant looks mistrustful, as if assuming they’re withholding a solution. He may be right–the matériel for the zip line isn’t in view, most of it has been hauled high into the canopy. “I call on you to identify yourselves…”

  Arthur breaks in. “I instruct my clients to remain silent.” A commanding voice that has the sergeant almost snapping to attention before he turns. A quick spate of introductions, then Arthur engages him in a testy debate about the press ban. Their uncaring attitude about the niceties about fundamental freedoms has him enraged, and his dressing-down has them stalking off.

  A thick silence ensues. Then all four above applaud. So do Flim and Flam. Margaret blows him a kiss.

  The next morning, half an hour after gulping his granola, Arthur is back in Vancouver. He’s gratified that Tragger Inglis is footing his sky-high account with Syd-Air. Indeed, Roy Bullingham has gone solidly to bat for the Gwendolyn team, has donated old Riley to the cause, and they’ve come up with twelve grounds of appeal. There will be a price to be paid by the sweat of Arthur’s brow.

  He leads Selwyn and Lotis into a courtroom filled with reporters, many of whom smile at the lawyer who stood up for them yesterday. Today’s application, before a single judge, is to stay proceedings until a full-dress appeal can be scheduled.

  The gods are with Arthur: the judge is Bill Webb, a fellow reformed drunk, founder of the Trial Lawyers’ AA chapter. His chances buoyed, Arthur argues vigorously that Kroop showed bias. Prudhomme responds with the hoary argument about the cost of these many delays of the inevitable, but His Lordship lets him know that justice will not be rushed.

  Gwendolyn wins a one-week reprieve. Bill Webb looks poker-faced at Arthur. “By the way, welcome back. We’ll adjourn.”

  “Whoa, have you been sleeping with that judge?” Lotis looks at Arthur with awe, perhaps sensing unrevealed powers. But there’s a bond between alcoholics who’ve shared pain and confession; it’s worth an occasional seven-day adjournment.

  “The appeal won’t be so easy,” Selwyn says. The pessimist is right. Kroop took a few wide bends but never went off the road. Rhetoric isn’t appealable.

  At the other end of the table, Todd Clearihue has a waxy smile as he confers with his legal team. Prudhomme smiles too, clinking the coins in his pocket.

  Faloon pulls a soggy tobacco pouch from his sink, squeezes its juice, dark and brackish, into his tin cup. It’s the right time to do this. He’s alone, it’s after six, the quiet time, the doors unracked, the occasional guy listening to a radio or reading.

  Faloon is on last grub call and he’s going to try to make it as far as the lineup even if it means doing a swan dive into his mashed potatoes. He puts the pouch under the tap, gives it another soaking. He read somewhere once how just a few drops of pure nicotine on your tongue can kill you in thirty seconds.

  He hopes Claudette got around to putting the Nitinat in her name. Also that she got word in time so she doesn’t come out to see him tomorrow, her regular day, Friday. He didn’t plan this too well, they could’ve had one more visit. He keeps telling himself he’s doing this because she truly loves him, and he wants to give her a better life. Because if Faloon ends up doing a back-gate parole in a coffin she may spend the rest of her life in her own prison, the prison they call heartbreak, like the song goes.

  Even Arthur Beauchamp couldn’t beat every rap, sometimes you get a dozen people in a jewellery store all picking you out of the lineup, you got to cop a plea. It’s a risk-filled line of work, if you’re caught behind the display cases, all you can do is act indignant, you go, Hey, I was only looking for the bathroom, and you hope you brazen it out the door, but sometimes you can’t.

  And he isn’t going to brazen this one out, either, this murder beef, not with having confessed it to Father Réchard, even if it was in his sleep. Not with the DNA. Not with his dumb moves, his stupid plan to get the hell out of Dodge City dressed as Gertrude, it was like admitting guilt to the world.

  The Sleepwalking Killer. I couldn’t help myself.

  He’s now collected half a cup of tobacco juice with this latest squeeze, which is about what the recipe says. If you picture a full ashtray left out in the rain, you get a rough idea of what it looks like, but worse. It smells like cat shit.

  He raises the cup, close his eyes, and does a little prayer just in case. He thinks of how Eve Winters had small talk with him that night at the Breakers, finding him more interesting than the condo guy. How they shared confidences, and her poetic way of talking. The wild relentless surf.

  He gulps the juice, swallowing, gagging, swallowing again, the sludge burning its way down to his stomach, prickling like a thousand tiny biting spiders. Bleat goes the sound system, it’s last call for chow. The thought of food is suddenly a very alien concept, he feels himself already turning green, but he’s not going to die unnoticed in his cell if he can help it.

  His body has started to race as he moves out, gets into line, staggers, makes it almost to the cafeteria, staggers again, some guys laughing, thinking he’s drunk. But when he’s in the banquet hall, steadying himself against the stacks of plastic trays, suddenly his weakness and nausea are gone.

  He’s strong, a fierce power is racing through him, he could actually tear the heart out of the guy serving the boiled cabbage.

  But this is nothing compared to when the nicotine really hits, because now he’s in costume with a
cape, he is Super Kangaroo, he can spring over everyone’s heads, spring to freedom, he’s out of this joint.

  With a roar, he jumps. He makes it high into the night sky, where there are only stars and sound, distorted familiar commands, “Inmates return to units!” “Count up!”

  Emerging from his crowded house, Arthur bows as his Tai Chi master dismounts from his bicycle. “Sorry,” says Corporal Al, “I couldn’t get through by phone. I didn’t know you were having a meeting.” He is looking at a rusty VW bus festooned with stickers urging inhabitants of the planet to save it.

  “Lessons in civil disobedience.” In the event that the appeal fails, Lotis has recruited an instructor for a brigade of civilly disobedient youths. “We’ll take tea on the porch so as not to disturb them.”

  It’s evening now, and Arthur has spent much of this day haggling with the stiff-necked sergeant. But finally reporters are free to roam where they want, and the tents are returning to Stump Town. An eighty-foot ladder, a type used by firefighters, lies athwart the stumps. The police weren’t able to wiggle it through the thickly wooded forest surrounding the Holy Tree.

  The law is aware a zip line is being strung–climbers were spotted in the canopy working with bolts and a hand drill. Arthur worries about how Margaret will get down. With spurs, pulleys, and a rappel line? It sounds fearfully dangerous. She blew him an extra kiss today, a two-hander. A reward for his small victory in court.

  Over tea and gingersnaps, Corporal Al explains he’s being transferred to northern Manitoba. He harbours no ill will toward those banishing him, his superiors, the judge who denounced him. “My time on Garibaldi was pretty well up. Headquarters claims you get too friendly with the natives if you stay longer. Flin Flon will be interesting. Brisk climate, good fishing.”

  But the reason for this visit, it appears, is not merely to say farewell. “A client of yours, that fellow Nick Faloon, fell ill. They rushed him to hospital.”